


Unravelings

by allowaykirk



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: >:), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Do Not Worry, Gen, M/M, Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed, there will also be romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7727839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allowaykirk/pseuds/allowaykirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A working list of different ways Merlin's magic could have been discovered.<br/>(By no means a comprehensive list)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dragon's Call

**Author's Note:**

> Ch.1 notes - warning for hinting/mention of abduction? I don't know if that's the right word, but one character is forcibly dragging another

Merlin remembered when he was a child, and when he would spend time trying to help his mother prepare supper.

 

His chubby hands were clumsy and uncoordinated, and more often than not, he’d knock over a pitcher or a stack of plates. But long before the dishes hit the floor, he’d stop their fall with a look, and guide them back up safely to the table.

 

His mother worried, as she always did. “Merlin, _bachgen_ darling, you mustn’t be so careless with your gifts. Some people don’t like magic, and they wouldn’t want to see such spells.” She would kneel before him and take his little hands in hers, clasped together in a prayer. “You must promise me you will hide your powers from others. Please, _bachgen_ , please do this for me.”

 

Merlin promised he would hide his powers, because his mother was his world and he didn’t want her to worry so.

 

But, as it turned out, Merlin was not very good at keeping secrets.

 

 

 

There was no time.

 

The blade was flying through the air, straight towards Arthur.

 

One more second, and the prince would be speared through the heart, right in front of the whole court.

 

Merlin couldn’t just _watch_ , could he?

 

Instincts drove his hands up, his fingers splayed in the anticipation of magic. He had known this spell since he was a child, and performing it was as easy as breathing.

 

He stared the blade down, his vision tunneling until he could no longer see the great hall and its entire splendor. It was just him and the knife.

 

 _Stop_ , he willed, and the blade halted there in the air. With a jerk of his chin, the point turned down, towards the floor, and the knife embedded itself in the stone stabs of the great hall floor.

 

For a moment, Merlin continued to stare at the knife, now sheathed in the floor.

 

He did not think of how he had just performed sorcery in front of the king.

 

He did not think of how he was just one fitful sleep away from being executed.

 

All he knew was that he had saved Arthur’s life after all, just as the dragon said he would.

 

“ _GUARDS_ ,” Uther yelled.

 

The whole room was filled with noise—the metal scraping of the guards unsheathing their swords, the shouts of the court, and over everything, Uther’s raging screams.

 

Merlin felt a rough hand on his shoulder, dragging him towards the door. He fought back, but he was no match, his attacker was stronger—

 

Uther was furious, spitting with rage as Merlin was dragged out of the hall and down the corridor. Even after the great hall’s doors faded from sight, the furious shouting could still be heard.

 

Merlin fought against the iron hands that held his wrists, but it was no use. If he could just stand, get his bearings—then maybe he could use a spell. But when his feet slipped on the floor, his attacker simply dragged him along.

 

And then they shoved Merlin through an open door. It was an entrance to the servants’ staircase, which winded down dizzyingly below their feet.

 

Trying to grasp at the situation, Merlin fought against the person, but a hand clasped his mouth.

 

“Don’t make a sound,” Arthur hissed into the darkness.

 

Merlin goggled at him. Surely he must have misheard—but that was the shape of Arthur’s nose, and his lips, and there was the faint glitter of the gold embroidery on his cloak, where the crest of the Pendragons was so lovingly stitched.

 

The two of them stood in perfect silence as dozens of footsteps thundered past—the guards.

 

When the noise passed, Arthur took Merlin’s shoulder and pushed him towards the stairs.

 

“Hey! What—“

 

“Quiet!” Arthur ordered, and cast a hasty glance over his shoulder at the door.

 

Merlin stood on the step, waiting for an explanation, but Arthur didn’t give one. He simply pushed Merlin again, forcing him to descend the winding staircase down to the kitchens.

 

“This way,” Arthur said, and took Merlin’s wrist, pulling him through the kitchen. They rushed past the giant hearths, past the crates and barrels of food, past the last of the shelves.

 

Arthur wrenched a door open, and cool summer air streamed into the kitchen.

 

“Where will you go?” He asked, eyes blazing.

 

“What—what do you mean?” Merlin howled, loud as he dared. “One minute I’m saving your life, the next you’re going to try and kill me personally, before the guards get to me?”

 

“You idiot,” Arthur spat through his teeth. “I’m trying to _help_ you.”

 

Arthur may have meant to make things clearer when he said that, but for Merlin it only created more questions.

 

“You—what? You’re trying to—but I just—“

 

“Yes, you just performed sorcery, which is an act punishable by death, and yes, I am committing treason for not killing you right now,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. “But you, Merlin—you are even more of an idiot than I realized, seeing as you just did magic in front of the court of Camelot.” He gave a weighty sigh. “But you used your magic to save my life. I owe you my life, and a debt must be repaid.”

 

Merlin’s head spun. “So—you’re helping me escape?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur said, his tone aggravated. “Now that’s all very well and good, so can we please get back to my question—where will you go?”

 

Merlin bit his lip. “To the North, I suppose. Through Glynnis Forest—I’ve heard rumors that druids live there.”

 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Arthur said dryly, “and I’ll tell them you went West. Here, give me this—“ He undid Merlin’s neckerchief. His fingers grazed the skin along the back of Merlin’s neck as he untied the knot, and shivers danced down Merlin’s spine. “You’ll be spotted with it.” Arthur held it in his hand like a hunting prize. “I’ll set a false trail to the West, but you’d better travel fast—the knights of Camelot are legendary hunters.”

 

All Merlin could do is gape at him. “Thank you,” he whispered, but that wasn’t enough, not nearly.

 

But Arthur furrowed his brow all the same and held his hands to Merlin’s shoulders. “Thank _you_ ,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to do that, but you did.”

 

Merlin opened his mouth to argue that of _course_ he did, he wasn’t going to stand by and watch Arthur be killed, no matter how much of a prat he was—but they could hear footsteps above them.

 

“Go,” Arthur said, pushing him through the threshold. And Merlin ran, his boots pounding against the ground. He looked back to see Arthur running towards the western woods, this cloak streaming behind him, still brilliant in the moonlight.

 

Merlin’s chest ached in a way that was different from shortness of breath.

 

But there was no time—soldiers were streaming out of the castle, and Merlin had to reach the tree line before they spotted him.

 

So he turned back to the forest and bolted towards the trees, the night air chilling his lungs. It was a long time before he stopped running, and when he did, he could only see the faint inklings of light coming from Camelot. The castle was now far in the distance, its candlelight as distant and dim as the stars.

 

He’d like to come back, Merlin knew. It had been a nice city to live in, however short his stay.

 

But he knew it would be years, even decades, before he’d be welcome in Camelot. Only after Uther’s passing would he dare to dream of stepping back into the city. Any sooner, and he’d be put to death.

 

 _Some destiny_ , Merlin thought mournfully. He took one last look at Camelot, then turned and ran deeper into the darkness of the forest.


	2. Valiant - I

Arthur had beat Valiant. He’d won the tourney, and more importantly, in Merlin’s personal opinion, he _survived_ , and was once again the golden boy of Camelot.

And that was all great. Fine.

But it’d be better if Arthur would _just talk to him._

Because something had happened, evidently—something that clearly was crawling beneath Arthur’s skin, making him so mad he seemed piping hot—that had made Arthur decide to give him the cold shoulder. For the life of him, Merlin couldn’t figure out what it was. He wracked his brain over and over in the chasm he found stretching between them, new and raw and completely unnatural.

In the days after the tourney, Merlin had served Arthur every meal, mended and polished his armor, cleaned his sword, scrubbed the floor of his bedroom, and laundered his clothes. Really, it wasn’t so different from back before the whole spectacle of the tourney. But unlike the days before, he had to work in silence, with Arthur’s back turned towards him at all times.

When he complained to Gwen about it, she’d knit her brow and put a hand to his arm, asking what had happened in that soft, concerned way of hers. Merlin had just shrugged then, because she seemed truly bothered, and told her he’d find out soon enough. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a clue why—rather, Merlin had a dozen hypotheses on why Arthur was just now deciding they shouldn’t be on speaking terms. The thing was, none of them were more likely than the last, and Merlin couldn’t find out a way to ask about each of them without Arthur losing his cool over all the questions.

On the night of the tourney, just before the banquet, Merlin sidled up to Arthur. It was easy to find him in the smoke-hazy hall; he’d been decked out in all his princely finery, glittering in the candlelight.

“Quite the battle, I bet,” Merlin had said. “I seem to recall someone had told you Valiant had been using magic.”

He’d expected a retort, but Arthur didn’t respond. He kept his eyes trained on his father, who stood in front of the wide fireplace, laughing with some of the men from court.

Merlin was sure Arthur had heard him, but he spoke up, just in case. “Arthur, are you—“

Quick as lightning, a hand was raised, fingers flexed in a clear sign. Enough.

Merlin backed away. He served Arthur all through the banquet, but didn’t try to speak again.

The next day Merlin came to Arthur’s bedroom to find him already awake and out of the room. The morning after that, Arthur was still asleep, but startled when Merlin shook his shoulder. And it continued through breakfast, through training, all the way until Merlin faced Arthur’s back as he sat on his bed, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and left the room.

He had told Gwen he wasn’t too worried, that Arthur probably just thought he had gotten too chummy with his bumbling servant during the stress of the tourney and was now trying to undo it all. But as Merlin scrubbed at the tiles on the fifth— _fifth!_ —days since this nonsense began, the worry was starting to eat away at him.

And, well—damn it, it _hurt_. It hurt to be picked up and tossed away like something replaceable, as if he were some sort of broken thing Arthur could discard on the floor and forget about. It certainly felt like that, with him kneeling on the floor, scrubbing annoyingly loudly while Arthur sat hunched at his desk, turned away.

Merlin could see his presence was annoying Arthur—with each squelch of the sponge, Arthur’s spine seemed to curve, his shoulders arching further. Logically, Merlin knew he should wrap up and get out before he got an inkwell lobbed in his direction, but he was bitter and angry and more than a little vindictive, so he didn’t. He plunged the sponge back in the pail instead, and drove it into the floor with a clap of water spraying the stones.

Arthur’s shoulders twitched.

Merlin dunked the sponge again.

Another sharp slapping sound. Water was soaking into the knees of Merlin’s trousers, and he didn’t mind one bit.

He wrung out the last dregs of water over the pail, the drops dribbling into the bucket. Arthur rolled his head, the muscles in his neck tight.

Merlin plunged the sponge back down, and as the sound reverberated through the room, Arthur stood up, nearly knocking the chair down behind him. He turned sharply, face already pinched in anger.

“ _Enough_ , Merlin,” he barked. “That is quite enough.”

“Is it, then?” Merlin took to his feet. He knew he looked stupid—cloth wrapped around his hips as a makeshift apron, water-logged trousers—but he was far too mad to care. “What, particularly, is ‘quite enough’ for you? Is it the fact that I’m just doing my job, and meanwhile you’ve just taken it upon yourself to be a brat for no good reason?”

Arthur’s mouth opened to retort, but the words were flowing out of Merlin then, and he was in no hurry to stop them. “What was it that set you off, huh? Was it when you won the tourney and realized you didn’t need to talk to your common manservant anymore, not when you had your knight friends licking your damn boots?”

“Don’t be ridiculous—“

“Of course there’s no need to tell me why you’re upset, of course not! Oh, Merlin, he doesn’t deserve to know what’s going on, to have any chance to fix this—what’ll he do? He’ll just make things worse!” He stepped closer, finger prodding dangerously close to Arthur’s chest. “Never mind the fact that I’ve been walking on _eggshells_ around you for the past five days—“

Arthur’s eyes flashed. “You’ve been nothing but—“

“But what, Arthur? Just admit it, you’d be angry no matter what I did, you’ve just decided to be mad and that’s that!”

There was so much more to be said, but Arthur’s eyes flashed dangerously, and the words died on Merlin’s tongue.

“Do you think I want to be angry?” Arthur asked, his voice low and shaking. “To be thrust into this—this hell of a position?”

For a moment, Merlin wondered if Arthur was talking about his birthright. But no, there was something else, something that had Arthur’s blood boiling. Something he had done.

For a moment, Merlin wondered if he was about to get sacked.

But Arthur just put a hand to his face, fingers on his temples, easing out the ache. “Go. You’re dismissed for the night. Go back to your quarters and stay there.”

Stupidly, Merlin said, “But the floor—“

Arthur fixed him with a searing glare. “I’ll take care of that myself. Just go.” His eyes dropped, and he gripped the frame of the chair till his knuckles turned white. “I need—I need to think.”

Merlin hesitated for a moment, waiting for more, for anything. But Arthur just stood, half-draped over the chair, completely still.

Merlin saw himself out then.

 

Dawn rose weak over the turrets of the castle, her rays half-hidden by the clouds. Merlin was thankful for small miracles, at least. In the shadows of the armory, he could tuck himself half-behind a cabinet and make himself scarce. He wasn’t hiding, really, just keeping himself out of Arthur’s line of sight. Arthur, for his part, wasn’t complaining.

Their walk down to the armory had been quiet, their steps echoing through the empty hallways. In the past weeks the walk had been filled with talk—lists of chores, complaints Arthur had about how his armor had been insufficiently polished. It hadn’t occurred to Merlin that he would have missed these talks. But here in the depths of the still-sleeping castle, silence rang between them, quiet enough for Merlin to hear his pulse in his ears.

Arthur pulled on his chainmail and waited, silent. Merlin stepped up, then, to fix the rest of it—the greaves first, then the fauld, which was always awkward, requiring Merlin to drape his arms around Arthur and clip in the clasp at his hipbone. The breastplate went over that, then the pauldrons, and Merlin was just finishing the fastenings of the gauntlets when Arthur spoke.

“I saw what you did.”

His voice was quiet, but in the silence of the armory the sound rang. Merlin looked up, surprised.

Arthur stared at the far wall, his gaze steely. “At the tourney.” Another pause. “Against Valiant.”

Merlin’s stomach dropped. The armory tilted sickeningly. “I don’t know what—“

Arthur held up his hand, the same fast motion he’d done at the banquet. Enough. His eyes met Merlin’s. He looked tired, and angrier than Merlin had ever seen him. “I saw it. I saw you, your hand out to his shield and your eyes—they flashed _gold_ , and—and suddenly the serpent was there, for everyone to see.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open in horror. “Arthur—no, I was just trying to help—to make everyone see—“

“Well I saw,” Arthur hissed. “And now I know.”

Merlin stared, frozen. Just last night he’d worried he’d be sacked, but right then all he could feel was the cold metal of the executioner’s blade.

Arthur fastened the rest of his gauntlet himself, grabbed his helmet and sword, and left the armory without another word.


End file.
